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four

Slate

I stand by the fireplace, feeding another log to the flames, trying to focus on practical matters rather than the woman moving around the candle lit cabin.

The power's been out for twenty minutes. The Princess—Jordyn—has handled it better than I expected. No complaints about missing Netflix or charging her phone. Instead, she methodically found candles, matches, and even an old battery-powered radio that's now softly playing staticky country music.

"The rental listing mentioned extra blankets in the hall closet," she says. "We should probably grab them now while we can still see."

I nod, not trusting my voice. She looks different in the candlelight—softer, less polished. Her hair has dried in natural waves. The oversized sweater she's changed into keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve where her neck meets her collarbone. I force my eyes away.

"I'll get them," I offer, needing distance between us.

The hallway is darker, only one candle offering meager light. I find the closet and pull out several thick blankets that smell of cedar and fabric softener. They're soft, expensive—like everything else in this place. Like her.

I've encountered her type before. Women who slum it with the working class when they want a thrill, when they want to feel edgy before returning to their comfortable lives. I'm nobody's vacation experiment.

So why can't I stop noticing the sway of her hips? The delicate line of her profile against the firelight? The way her leggings hug curves that have no business occupying my thoughts?

She's twenty-five. Thirteen years younger than me. Practically from another planet in terms of lifestyle. Every logical part of my brain is sounding the alarm.

I carry the blankets back and find her sitting cross-legged on the floor near the fire, pouring something from a bottle into two lowball glasses.

"Found some whiskey," she says with a smile that creates a dimple in her right cheek. "Seemed appropriate for a storm."

"Didn't take you for a whiskey drinker."

She laughs, the sound honest and unguarded. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Slate."

I place the blankets on the couch, careful to keep my distance as I accept the glass she offers. The whiskey is good—of course it is.

"So," she says, taking a small sip and trying not to wince at the burn and failing adorably. "Tell me more about your life on the road."

I settle on the floor across from her, the fire crackling between us. Safe. Safer than the couch where we might end up too close.

"Not much to tell. I drive. I deliver. I drive some more."

"There must be more to it than that," she persists. "Favorite routes? Crazy stories? Best diners in the country? I want to know."

Her eyes reflect the firelight, genuine curiosity shining there. Against my better judgment, I find myself answering.

"Route 50 across Nevada. They call it the Loneliest Road in America. Miles of nothing but open desert and mountains in the distance. No billboards, no strip malls, no noise. Just you and the road."

She leans forward slightly, completely engaged. "That sounds beautiful."

"It is. Most people would call it boring, but there's something about that emptiness..." I trail off, uncomfortable with revealing too much.

"No, I get it," she says softly. "Sometimes emptiness gives you room to breathe. Room to hear yourself think."

Something shifts between us—a moment of unexpected understanding.

"Best diner is closer to home. It's a place called Dot's in Red Deer," I continue, steering toward safer ground. "Woman who runs it has been cooking the same menu for forty years. Makes pie that would make you forget that truck stop slice."

She grins. "Fighting words."

The whiskey and fire are warming me from the inside out, loosening my guard despite my best efforts. The storm rattles the windows, but in here it's warm, almost intimate. Dangerous.

"Your turn," I say, redirecting attention away from myself. "What's it like in your world?"

She considers this, taking another sip. "Controlled. Everything managed for maximum appearance. Even the most casual brunch requires the right outfit, the right conversation topics. It's exhausting."

"Sounds fake."

"It is. Completely." She sighs, and the sound holds genuine weariness. "That's why I'm here. I needed to remember what real feels like."

The simple honesty in her voice catches me off guard. I expected shallow, rehearsed answers about needing a social media detox. Not this raw admission.

"And is this real enough for you?" I gesture around at the cabin.

To my surprise, she laughs. "Touché. It's lux-rustic at best. But it's still closer to real than my normal life."

She stretches her legs out toward the fire. The movement causes her sweater to slide further off her shoulder, revealing more smooth skin. My cock strains against my jeans. My mouth goes dry, and I take a larger swallow of whiskey.

"What about you?" she asks. "Do you have someone waiting at home when you're on these long hauls?"

The question is casual, but I don't miss the careful way she watches for my response. I shouldn't care that she's interested. Shouldn't be pleased by the prospect.

"No," I say simply. "Trucking and relationships don't mix well. Learned that the hard way."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not a life many people would choose." I look directly at her. "Certainly not someone used to comfort and consistency."

She holds my gaze, not backing down. "Maybe some of us find too much consistency suffocating."

The radio crackles with static, then the announcer's voice breaks through with a weather update. The storm's expected to continue through the night, with flooded roads and downed trees reported throughout the county. Not getting out of here anytime soon.

Jordyn rises to turn up the volume, and I allow myself a momentary indulgence—taking in the graceful line of her back, the curve of her hip, the way her honey-blonde hair falls past her shoulders. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

When she turns back, she catches me looking. I don't glance away fast enough, and something flares in her eyes—awareness, interest, heat. The cabin suddenly feels one thousand degrees warmer.

"Sounds like we're stuck together until tomorrow at least," she says, voice a touch lower than before.

"Looks that way." My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

She settles back down, closer to me than before. I can smell her shampoo—something expensive and subtle. Classy.

"We should probably try to get some sleep," I suggest, needing to break the tension before I do something stupid. "Been a long day."

"Probably," she agrees, but makes no move to rise. Instead, she pulls one of the blankets from the couch and wraps it around her shoulders. "But I'm not really tired yet. Are you?"

I'm exhausted, actually. But sleep feels impossible with her sitting so close, firelight dancing across her features, her eyes holding questions I shouldn't answer.

"The guest room is all yours," she continues when I don't respond. "Unless you'd prefer the couch."

"Couch is fine." Closer to the exits. Farther from her bedroom. Safer.

She nods, but looks disappointed. "But before bed… More whiskey?"

I should say no. Should stick to water and clear thinking. "Sure."

She pours another finger into my glass, our fingers brushing. The brief contact sends electricity up my arm. She feels it too— I can tell by the quick intake of breath, the way her eyes dart to mine.

"I'm glad it was you," she says suddenly.

"What was me?"

"Broken down on the side of the road. I'm glad it was you I found and not someone else."

The sincerity in her voice dismantles another layer of my defenses. "You shouldn't pick up strange men on mountain roads. Could be dangerous."

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Are you dangerous, Slate?"

To her? Absolutely. But not in the way she's thinking.

"Just saying you should be more careful."

"I'm usually extremely careful. My whole life is careful." She leans forward slightly. "Maybe I'm tired of careful."

The warning bells in my head are deafening now. She's young, beautiful, clearly interested, and probably rebounding from her breakup. I'm convenient—a working-class thrill before she returns to her real life. I need to shut this down.

The firelight catches the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip. I imagine what her lips would look like wrapped around my cock, watching her cheeks hollow as she takes all of me down her throat…

"You should get some rest," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Been a long day."

Disappointment flickers across her face before she masks it with a smile. "You're probably right." She stands, gathering her glass and the bottle.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak as she moves away. The sway of her hips as she walks toward the kitchen to put away the whiskey is almost my undoing.

"Goodnight, Slate," she says softly, pausing at the hallway entrance. The way she looks at me over her shoulder, half in shadow, half in light, will be burned into my memory for a long time to come.

"Goodnight, Jordyn."

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sound of the storm rather than the memory of her smile, her laugh, the curve of her shoulder in the firelight. Try and fail.

My cock is straining, aching for attention.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll remember all the reasons this is a bad idea. Tonight, just for these quiet hours in the dark, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if the circumstances were different—if I were different, if she were different.

I unzip my jeans and fist my cock, pulling with the right amount of pressure to help me relieve myself quickly. I hold my breath and keep an eye on the hall while I jerk off, simultaneously fantasizing about her and hoping she won’t walk in.

I grunt low as I come hard, heat giving way to shame as I clean myself up.

It's a dangerous indulgence, but no more dangerous than the way my body responded when she sat close to me, no more dangerous than the thoughts that keep circling in my mind as sleep finally begins to claim me.

Dangerous, but seemingly inevitable, like the storm that brought us together in the first place.